


you must like me for me

by tintedglasses



Series: Take Your Winterhawk to Work Day AU [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Goes to Therapy, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky has a prosthetic arm, First Date, Fluff, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, and i suppose a little bit of, everyone is just trying to do okay, not full blown but kinda, some conversations about healing and being your best self, war vet bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18795964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tintedglasses/pseuds/tintedglasses
Summary: Bucky hadn’t really known how much he wanted this until now. He had told himself that this could be a little therapeutic exercise, a way to get his therapist off his back when she asks if he’s tried to make any friends outside of group, and, hey, if Clint didn’t show or it didn’t work out, at least he tried. But unbeknownst to him, and without his permission, his brain had apparently strung out a whole fantasy where they would meet for coffee and they would hit it off and Bucky could feel halfway to normal again.Now, all he wants to do is crawl home to his and Steve’s apartment, curl up in a ball, and watch some Netflix. Maybe, if he’s nice, he can convince Steve to pet his hair, and maybe, if he’srealnice, he can convince Steve not to ask him any questions about what has him in his favorite wallowing position in the first place.Or, Bucky and Clint go for coffee. Except for how they don't.





	you must like me for me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1000_directions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/gifts).



> After I posted the first part of this, [Steph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions) said, "I wouldn't be mad if you wanted to write about them going out for coffee" and I couldn't let the idea go so I made it happen. Well, kind of. 
> 
> Title from "Delicate" by Taylor Swift, because apparently Taylor Swift titles are a thing in this series. Also, this is unbeta'd, too, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Anxiety is a more prevalent theme in this one, but (I think) it shouldn't be too heavy. Still, please take care of yourself :)

Bucky keeps running his parting words to Clint through his head over and over, second-guessing himself. _He said five, right? It was definitely five...Wasn’t it? And he did say the place across the street. Unless, maybe Clint knows a different place across the street? But if there were multiple places, wouldn’t Clint have corrected him?_

A cup clatters against a table and Bucky jumps, he head whipping in the direction of the back of the coffee shop where a young girl is wiping up a little bit of what looks like spilled hot chocolate. He forces himself to take a deep breath, scrubbing his hand through his hair. _He’s fine. No threat. It’s fine._

He glances down at his watch again for the what feels like the twentieth time. _5:32pm_. Fuck. 

He knows that he said five o’clock and he knows it was clearly this coffee shop that he was talking about. He’s not stupid; he just really doesn’t want to believe that Clint stood him up. But it’s been 32 minutes with no sign of him and, without a number to call Clint at, he is starting to come to terms with the fact that all evidence points towards the conclusion that Clint isn’t coming.

And this...this really fucking sucks. 

Bucky hadn’t really known how much he wanted this until now. He had told himself that this could be a little therapeutic exercise, a way to get his therapist off his back when she asks if he’s tried to make any friends outside of group, and, hey, if Clint didn’t show or it didn’t work out, at least he tried. But unbeknownst to him, and without his permission, his brain had apparently strung out a whole fantasy where they would meet for coffee and they would hit it off and Bucky could feel halfway to normal again. 

Now, all he wants to do is crawl home to his and Steve’s apartment, curl up in a ball, and watch some Netflix. Maybe, if he’s nice, he can convince Steve to pet his hair, and maybe, if he’s _real_ nice, he can convince Steve not to ask him any questions about what has him in his favorite wallowing position in the first place.

He thinks he should probably wait a little longer, but the noise of the shop is much more triggering than he thought it’d be and he can’t take it anymore, so he takes one more deep breath and gets up, grabbing the empty water cup and the wrapper from the bagel he ordered an hour ago with his left hand, the wrapper scrunched in his palm and the cup dangling from between two fingers.

The bell above the door rings as his back is turned to it, the shrill ringing noise of it plucking at his anxiety. He hears footsteps are quickly approaching him from behind and his muscles start to coil tightly, but before he can even try any of the tension releasing activities he’s been practicing, there’s the noise of someone kicking a chair and a mumbled, “Damn it, sorry. Sorry,” and he _knows_ that voice.

“Clint?” he says, as he turns around, taking in the annoyed face of a woman and Clint, hunched over, trying to push her chair back in by the looks of it.

Clint straightens up and spins to look at Bucky, a wide grin splitting his face for a brief second before his eyes grow wide and it dims significantly. “Bucky, oh my god. Thank god you’re still here. I am so sorry.”

He comes over to Bucky, moving too quickly and accidentally crossing the boundary of Bucky’s personal space bubble, which is always noticeably bigger when he’s stressed. Bucky only startles a little bit, but he loses the grip on his plastic cup and it falls, clanging as it hits the tile. 

Clint takes a step back, his hands up in front of him, cheeks pink. “Oops, sorry. Went a little fast again. Might have had a little too much caffeine today, if you know what I mean.”

Bucky probably would have laughed at that joke earlier today when they were in the safety of Clint’s office, but right now all he can focus on is the fact that people are staring at them and that the hiss of the cappuccino machine is making it hard for him to think and that he wants nothing more than to not be here right now. He _can’t_ be here right now.

He lifts the wrapper towards Clint and motions towards the cup on the ground. “Let me just—” he says, bending to pick up the cup.

“Oh, yeah. Why don’t you toss that and we can get a new table?” Clint says, as Bucky puts the cup in the dirty dishes bin and throws the wrapper away. 

“No, I can’t,” Bucky says, feeling his chest get tighter. “I need—I have to go.”

Clint’s face crumples, even though Bucky can tell that he tries to hide it. “Oh, okay.” His voice has lost its characteristic buoyancy and Bucky kind of wants to cry. “No, yeah. I understand. I’ll just—follow you out, I guess.”

Bucky quickly makes his way out the door, taking a big breath of air once he gets out. His chest is still tight, but he already feels much better. He closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, counting to five for both, willing himself to get it together before he really fucks up.

“Before you go,” Clint says and Bucky turns to see him with his head bowed, scuffing his foot on the ground. Part of Bucky is surprised that he’s still here, that he hasn’t taken the opportunity to run. “I just wanted to apologize for being late. I got caught up with this thing at work and I couldn’t call and I’m not—I’m not trying to make excuses and I know you have to go, but I—”

“Clint,” Bucky interrupts and Clint looks up at him, his expression subdued. Bucky’s heart is still beating too fast, but now that Clint’s here, he has to make sure he doesn’t leave. “I don’t have to go. I just—” Bucky’s feels his face getting hot, his breathing still too fast, “—there was just too much noise and I had to get out. Can you give me a minute, though? I can’t—I just—I need a second.”

“Oh,” Clint says, his eyes widening in understanding. “Oh, shit, dude, yeah. Here let’s go over by the wall.” He leads them away from the middle of the sidewalk, careful not to touch Bucky as he shepherds him along. Bucky is unspeakably grateful. “Take as long as you need. You need me to do anything?”

Bucky shakes his head. 

“Alright, just let me know.” Clint says and leans against the wall next to Bucky, watching the people walk past them.

He can already feel the panic subsiding faster than normally does when he’s alone. He feels guilty for thinking it, but it’s faster than when he’s with Steve, too, who hovers a little too close and carries a subtle string of panic himself, not knowing how to help Bucky.

Clint, though, is a calm presence by his side. He doesn’t ask again if Bucky is okay, seemingly trusting his ability to let Clint know what he needs. He doesn’t seem bored or irritated or anything either; he just gives Bucky his space in peace. 

Bucky runs through a few more deep breathing exercises until he’s certain the worst of the anxiety has passed. Some days, he can feel the anxiety creeping up in a slow crawl, worming its way through his body, easily detectable. But some days, it’s like this; a good day—a great day, even—and then a sudden headfirst slide into the panic, unpredictable. He doesn’t know which types of days he prefers. On days like this, though, he likes to be sure he’s worked the anxiety all the way back down, knowing how easy it is for it to flare up once it’s started. 

“Sorry about that,” Bucky says when the tingling in his fingers has subsided. He flexes his left hand, missing the symmetry of being able to flex both. It always makes him feel a little off balance. “I didn’t mean to make you just stand there.”

“No, man,” Clint says quickly, standing up from where he was propped against the wall. “Don’t even try to apologize. Especially not after I made you wait for—” he pulls out his phone, wincing as the screen lights up, “—fuck, was it really 40 minutes? Shit, I am so sorry.”

“An hour and forty,” Bucky blurts out before he can stop himself. 

Clint’s face pales, his lips parted. “Oh my god, did you say four? I swore you said five.”

“No, no. It was supposed to be five,” Bucky says, looking down at his feet, kind of wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. “I didn’t mean to say that. It’s not your fault. I just...I got there early. It’s stupid. It’s just. I’ve never been here before and sometimes it helps me to have a little time to settle in.” 

Although it obviously didn’t today and, _wow, Buck, overshare much?_ He watches Clint’s face for any sign of apprehension, any sign that Bucky’s hypervigilance has clued him in to how messed up Bucky’s brain can be and how much of a chore it can be sometimes to keep up with it— _as if his near panic attack didn’t already demonstrate that_ —but he doesn’t find any. 

Instead, Clint just says, “I don’t think that’s stupid. And trust me, I do, like, 11 stupid things before lunch most days, so I’m an expert on the topic.”

Bucky shocks himself with a laugh and feels the relief settling his nerves enough to joke, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He pauses. “I’m sure it’s only like eight.” 

Clint points a finger at Bucky. “You wound me.”

Bucky ducks his head to smother his grin, but when he looks up under his lashes, Clint’s grinning, too. 

“So,” Clint says, rocking back on his heels. “What do you want to do now that I effectively ruined our coffee date?”

Bucky flushes, both at the word ‘date’ and because if anyone ruined the coffee date, it was Bucky and his anxiety. His fingers start to tingle a little again, reminding him that he’s not exactly safe from a repeat event. He doesn’t want to say this, because he really doesn’t want to reschedule, but—“I know I said that I didn’t have to go, but I’m actually not sure if being out in public is a good idea for me right now.” 

Clint just shrugs, “Alright, cool. Want to go to my place and watch some Netflix, then? I think I’ve got some freezer pizzas or something if you’re hungry.”

Bucky can feel himself gaping at Clint a little bit, but he can’t help it. At every opportunity for Clint to get weird about Bucky’s issues ( _obstacles, Bucky, reframe that_ ), he just...doesn’t. He just keeps meeting Bucky right where he’s at, with no hesitation or seemingly any effort at all. Bucky’s so used to be treated...not like a _burden_ per se, but like something that requires constant consideration, a fragile ecosystem teetering on the edge of imbalance, and it feels so good to have someone treat him so normally. 

“Oh, shit,” Clint says, probably because Bucky hasn’t said anything back. “I mean, unless you’re not comfortable with that, which I totally get. I mean, we did only meet today, so I understand that you might not want to go to some rando’s apartment.”

“No, that’s good,” Bucky says quickly, tucking his hair behind his ear. “That’d be really good.”

”Yeah?” Clint’s smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and Bucky’s knees feel a little weak. “Nice. Okay. I promise I won’t murder you or anything.” 

Bucky snorts. “That sounds like something a murderer would say.”

“Huh, it does, doesn’t it? Guess you’ll have to take your chances, then,” Clint shrugs. He points down the street to the left. “It’s just two blocks that way, if you’re not too scared now.”

Bucky sweeps his hand out, “Lead the way, Ted Bundy.” 

“If that’s your way of saying you think my looks are on par with Zac Efron, I will gladly accept that compliment,” Clint says, his tongue peeking out from between his teeth in another truly adorable smile. 

Bucky’s heart is racing again, but this time, it’s not so bad.

* * *

Clint’s apartment is...well, it’s a bit of a disaster, if Bucky’s being completely honest. 

They’re breathing a little heavily when they enter the door after climbing five flights of stairs and Clint’s eyes widen as he scans the apartment, as if seeing it for the first time. “Shit, you never really realize how gross you’re being until you bring a witness, do you? Just gimme a sec.”

He heads towards the coffee table, stacking up the large, yelllow GRE prep books and loose papers, putting them on a bookshelf instead. He then starts to clear what looks like five—no, wait, six—coffee mugs, taking them over to the little kitchen area.

Bucky stands near the doorway, not sure where Clint wants him. Besides, he’s honestly a little afraid he might step on something. “You know, using the word ‘witness’ doesn’t make this feel less murder-y.”

Clint’s back is turned to Bucky while placing the mugs in the sink, but Bucky can _feel_ Clint’s eye roll. “Shut up,” he laughs, turning around to lean against the counter, a playful smile on his lips. “Plus, you still followed me here anyways, didn’t you?”

Bucky shrugs, “Guess I did.” 

“And I believe I lured you with the promise of freezer pizza,” Clint says, using his hands to push off the counter and walk over towards the fridge. As he opens the door and starts to dig through the different boxes, Bucky wants to correct him. To say, _it wasn’t the pizza, it’s you, I’m here for you_. Somehow, though, he thinks Clint already knows that.

“Oops, guess I ate the last of the pizzas. How do pizza rolls sound?” Clints pops his head back out of the freezer, brandishing a bag of Totino’s in his hand. 

“I mean, I was reeeeally banking on that pizza,” Bucky drawls, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Can you ever forgive me?” Clint says solemnly, but Bucky can see the way that he has to bite his tongue. 

Bucky hums, pretending to think about it. “I suppose I can. I will have to leave you a one-star Yelp review, though. It’s my civic duty.”

Clint breaks at this, tilting his head back in laughter with the pizza rolls clutched to his chest. He looks back at Bucky, his shoulders still shaking a little. “You think you’re funny.”

“You think I’m funny, too,” Bucky says. 

“Yeah,” Clint says, and Bucky sees how soft his eyes are before he turns to pre-heat the oven. “Yeah, I do.”

* * *

Once Clint puts the rolls in the oven, he cleans off the couch—and by clean, Bucky means that he throws all of the clothes into a hallway closet and shuts the door— and motions for Bucky to sit down. 

“So,” Clint asks. “How’d it go today with Nat? If you don’t mind me asking.”

When Bucky had seen the flyer for the study on the bulletin board outside his group therapy meeting, he hadn’t really known what to expect. He only had what he’s seen on TV or movies to go off of—people with a bunch of electrodes strapped to their heads or scientists in lab coats writing on their clipboards, watching and poking and prodding. While he didn’t really want to do any of that, he did like the idea of having a purpose, of using his experience to maybe help someone else, and if that was the way he could do it, then he supposed it was worth it.

Luckily, though, it was nothing like that at all. Instead, it was just him and Natasha in the room, having a conversation like old friends. 

“It was good. Really good,” Bucky says. “I’ve never done a study before, so I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into, but it was just talking. And I do that at group all the time, so it was pretty easy.”

“That’s good! Nat’s great, too. I mean, I love making fun of her, don’t get me wrong, but I wasn’t lying when I said she was a great researcher.” Clint makes a face, “Just don’t tell her I said that.”

Bucky laughs. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Clint looks like he is going to say something else, but hesitates.

“What?”

Clint purses his lips a little before saying, “I’m just glad to hear it went well because you seemed a little stressed at the coffee shop, so I wasn’t sure if maybe something had happened.”

“Oh.” Bucky looks down at his hands, picking once at the prosthesis before stopping himself. “That.”

“Hey,” Clint says, reaching out to put a hand on Bucky’s wrist, ending up with the prosthetic one because it’s closer. Bucky stares at Clint’s hand and Clint lifts it slightly, so it’s hovering and not touching. “Sorry, does that—should I not do that?”

Bucky clears his throat and looks up at Clint. Clint is looking at him earnestly, like he isn’t waiting to make some kind of judgement based on Bucky’s answer, but rather like he wants to make sure that he’s respecting Bucky’s boundaries.

“No, you can,” Bucky says. It’s just that normally people don’t want to.

Clint lowers his hand again, this time curling his fingers around Bucky’s wrist in a firm grip. 

“I was just going to say that I get it, you know? Studies can be pretty triggering when you have to talk about that kind of stuff in detail, so I mean, I think it would have been more surprising if you wouldn’t have been a little stressed.”

Bucky hadn’t thought about that being the reason behind his heightened anxiety, but it does make sense. In group, they always talk about the importance of relaxing and recharging after a session in order to let the brain have time to process things, but he guesses he didn’t think that this would be the same; although, in retrospect, maybe he should have because after group, he’s usually a bit more sensitive than usual, and he doesn’t even have to talk the whole time. 

“Yeah, I mean, I think that maybe that was part of it,” Bucky concedes. He’s quiet for a moment as he puts his next thought into words and Clint watches him unobtrusively, as Bucky watches Clint’s thumb absent-mindedly rub against his wrist. When he’s ready, he says, “But I think...I think that sometimes I get really frustrated because I used to be really good with people, you know? And so, when I go somewhere with people and they start to trigger me, I just...I get so frustrated because I don’t feel like me anymore. And then that makes me feel a little panicky and it kind of spirals from there.” 

Clint’s thumb slows in its movement against Bucky’s wrist and Bucky looks up at him, but he’s looking at the ground, his brow furrowed and his eyes a little distant. “You know, sometimes who you were is taken from you and you can’t ever get that you back.” Clint’s voice is quiet in a way that Bucky hasn’t heard from him before. It’s very...deliberate. “All that’s left is who you are now. And I guess you have to learn how to make the best of the life you’re living now, because you won’t ever be able to go back to the life you were living.”

Bucky feels like his lungs are in a vice grip, except that this time it isn’t from anxiety. It’s because he recognizes that type of voice and he knows the pain that comes alongside it. He places his hand on Clint’s arm where he’s still holding Bucky’s wrist and waits until Clint looks at him. “You learn that in group therapy?” Bucky asks softly. 

Clint’s mouth quirks up in a sad little tilt, but his eyes look clearer. “Nah. Just many years of individual therapy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky tilts his head, careful to keep his tone neutral.

“Mhm,” Clint says. He still looks a little sad for a moment, before shaking his head, as if to physically ward the sadness away. “We don’t need to get into that, though. That’s like...fifth date stuff.”

Bucky takes the out, wanting to grant Clint the same space that Clint has been so graciously giving him. “Wow, we haven’t even made it through one date and you’re already planning our _fifth_. That’s bold.”

Luckily, Clint’s eyes look a little brighter as he laughs, “What can I say? I’m an optimist at heart.”

Squeezing Clint’s arm, Bucky leans in a little and asks, “Do you want to know a secret?”

Clint nods, sliding his hand up Bucky’s prosthesis so that Bucky’s other hand is resting on top of his and links their fingers together. 

Bucky feels his neck flush in anticipation of his admission. Ducking his head and then looking at Clint from under his eyelashes, he says, “I wasn’t just at the coffee shop early to acclimate myself. I was also just really excited to see you again.”

Clint’s face melts into a gorgeous smile as he laughs and nudges Bucky’s shoulder with his own, making them rock on the couch a little. “That’s sappy.”

Feeling himself blush a little, Bucky returns his smile. They look at each other for a moment and Bucky revels in the comfort of it all, of being here in Clint’s apartment, of making someone laugh again. He tucks the feeling away in his chest, looking forward to revisiting it later. 

Then, he nudges Clint back. “And then you almost stood me up.”

“Which, again, I am very sorry for,” Clint says, sincerely, rotating to pull his leg up on the couch so he can face Bucky better, but not letting go of his hand. “I got this call right before I was going to leave and it was someone wanting to reschedule, so then I had to call someone else to see if _they_ could reschedule and then call this other person back and I couldn’t text you because we were dumb and didn’t exchange numbers.”

“Well, I accept your apology,” Bucky says, mirroring Clint’s position. “We just need to give each other our numbers now, so you can let me know when you are late again.”

“Okay, two things. One, how dare you just assume that I will be late again?” Bucky quirks a skeptical eyebrow at him. Clint stares at him for a moment before sighing. “Okay, that’s fair. But anyways, two, is that the only acceptable time for me to use your number?”

“Why? Are you going to booty call me?”

“Gross,” Clint laughs. “It sounds weird when you say it. But yes, I might ‘booty call’ you. I mean, not like anytime soon—not that I’m not interested, but it is only the first date—”

“Clint.” Clint clamps his mouth shut, his cheeks a little pink. Bucky laughs, “You can booty call me. But only after the third date.”

Clint shrugs. “That’s fair.”

They’re interrupted by the timer on the oven signalling that the pizza rolls are done. “Oh, nice. Let me grab those,” Clint says, letting go of Bucky’s hand in order to climb over the back of the couch instead of walking around it. Bucky almost hates that he finds that endearing. Almost, but not really. “The remote’s on the table. Why don’t you pull something up on Netflix while I get these bad boys out?”

Bucky grabs the remote and turns, draping his arm over the back of the couch so he can watch Clint. “Any requests?”

“Nah, whatever you want,” Clint says, digging oven mitts out of a drawer. “I doubt we’ll watch most of it.”

“Clint,” Bucky gasps, faux-scandalized. He can’t ignore how his body flushes at the idea, though.

Clint turns from where he’s bent over getting the pizza rolls out and waggles his eyebrows. He pulls the tray out, glancing his hand off the bottom of one of the oven racks. “Ow, fuck.”

Bucky winces. “You okay?”

He blows on his hand a little, waving Bucky off with the other. “Yeah, happens all the time. Now pick something out. I want to eat these and then maybe try pull a sneaky move to get you to cuddle with me.”

Bucky turns back towards the TV to hide his grin. “Okay. You can try.” 

He could get used to this, he thinks. 

And he thinks that maybe his goal of feeling ‘normal’ again has been a little misguided all along, because Clint probably wouldn't be considered normal either. But maybe being normal is a bit overrated. 

Maybe he should just be Bucky instead.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post,](https://tintedglasses.tumblr.com/post/184815610389/you-must-like-me-for-me-by-tintedglasses-for) if you'd like to reblog it!
> 
> thanks for reading <3


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